WAITING PRACTICE

Lynn Schooler DAWN

 

I come to you on  my knees this early January morning huddled in a heap of conflicting emotions over the prospect of war between the United States and Iran.

The Reality…

Continuous War Sabers

 

The Prayer….

Rough Translations by Jan Richardson

Hoping against hope, he believed.
—Romans 4:18

Hope nonetheless.
Hope despite.
Hope regardless.
Hope still.

Hope where we had ceased to hope.
Hope amid what threatens hope.
Hope with those who feed our hope.
Hope beyond what we had hoped.

Hope that draws us past our limits.
Hope that defies expectations.
Hope that questions what we have known.
Hope that makes a way where there is none.

Hope that takes us past our fear.
Hope that calls us into life.
Hope that holds us beyond death.
Hope that blesses those to come.

by Jan Richardson from Women’s Christmas Retreat

 

 

Photo Credit:  https://www.facebook.com/lynn.schooler

I am grateful to Lynn Schooler for permission to use this exquisite photo experience of today’s dawn in Juneau Alaska.  You have a rich experience awaiting you at his facebook page.  Thank you, Lynn.

A Spiritual Camino de Santiago

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I am reminded of these earlier musings as I feast on the book, Walking in Wonder, a gathering of Johm O’Donohue’s poetry and philosophising by his friend John Quinn.  It is O’Donohue’s discussion of Meister Eckhart that brought me to this place again.

I first coined the phrase “genes of our souls” in this poem I wrote in 1989 after experiencing the deaths of my parents.  It brought me some comfort.

November

At 75 I am coming closer to understanding and accepting the import of the phrase.  O’Donohue relates Meister Eckhart’s conviction that there is “a lonely edge to our lives” that can only be filled by God, and that if we want to come into God’s presence, we must let go of all images to make that journey.  And it is the journey, the process that matters. For me the journey entails a stripping down to the very genes of my soul where Presence lives unfettered by the images I have created.  In those moments of nothingness I experience fullness.

This has become my Advent meditation. My journey is less toward a babe in a manger and more toward an expansive divine presence gestating within my spirit.  As I move along the path I throw out all the clutter that blocks my way. It comforts me to be companioned by you on this sacred camino de santiago.

Spiritual Backwalking

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I have recently been gifted with a profound metaphor that I will share with you, but first

TWO STORIES.  A treasured member of my faith community lives with early on-set Parkinson’s Disease.  When his brain stops moving him forwad, he walks backward.  Healthline.com says, “It’s a simple way for you to challenge different muscles and force your mind to focus and operate differently.”  Rather than stopping, my friend lets go and imagines another way to move.  Backwards becomes frontwards.

In the 1960’s war novel, Catch-22, Yosarian walks backwards, “…because he was continually spinning around as he walked to make certain no one was sneaking up on him from behind.”  Yosarian was experiencing the reality of war, not paranoia.  The enemy was sneaking up behind him with intent to kill.  His fixation on fear had taken possession of him, so he walked backwards to be safe. And now

THE METAPHOR.  What if we trained our souls to stop the unhealthy ego-spin by walking backwards?  This spiritual practice necessitates a profound letting-go, just as it does when our bodies attempt to walk backwards.  We are awkward and afraid of falling, so we rely on a friend’s arm or trekking poles, and our progress is slow.  Spiritual backwalking requires us to rely on the movements of the Spirit instead of relying solely on an out-of-control ego.  We find the courage to walk inside the dangerous fissures of constant change and uncertaintly.  We take on a holy vulnerability when we risk this spiritual backwalking.

Our society doesn’t endorse walking backwards.  It’s motto is forward-thrust with great gusto, a speed which supports all manner of unhealthy ego-patterns, the worst of them being an inordinate drive to control self and others at all cost.  This is the war zone we find ourselves in at this moment and like Yosarian, we have to walk backwards to be safe.  We have to let go and trust Spirit to companion us through the change and uncertainty that bombards us.  And now

A POEM

Backwalking (1)

One of our blogging community members offered this beautiful story about PD folks “unfreezing ” by dancing.  Enjoy:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000c4pp

Photo Credit:  Pinterest.com

In-Sight

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Coleridge enthusiasts will recognize the reference to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “Alone, alone, all, all alone/ Alone on a wide, wide sea/ And never a saint/ Took pity on my soul in agony.”  Whether spawned from an opium delerium or a moment of contemplation, the truth is there.

A nod to my friend Ernest Hemmingway and his brilliant short, short story, “A Clean Well-Lighted place,” where all is nada without one.

 

 

Photo by Hasan Albari from Pexels

Where Have You Gone?

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It has been two days since I visited my sister-in-law in the memory care unit.  An intense collage of feelings have mixed with tears as I struggle to make sense of the unsensible.

GONE   WHERE ARE YOU   MOMENTS OF TERROR   HUMOR   GRIEF  UNLESS YOU BECOME LIKE LITTLE CHILDREN YOU CANNOT ENTER THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN  WITHOUT THE ABILITY TO THINK…IS THERE A SOUL    it’s all there.

Phyllis was diagnosed with Alzheimers two years ago and now after another fall and a broken hip and a move, the disease has progressed dramatically in a short time. I am grateful that my brother hasn’t lived to witness this.

At last this morning I was gifted with a measure of sense and hope:

Gone

 

Photo Credit:  pexels.com

 

 

 

Wounds As Tender Tinder

 

 

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This poem follows on the heels of yesterday’s prayer.  It dogged me with the tenacity of Heaven’s Hound until this was born.  Ponder with me.

 

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Listen For The Breath Of The Divine

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The wall between us and the divine is very thin at this time of year. It permeates every nook and cranny of our existence. If we are awake, we can hear its breath whisper words of love through chinks we have burrowed in the doors to our souls. Keep on knocking.

 

Rilke’s Book of Hours
Anita Barrows
1,6

You, God, who live next door—
If at times, through the long night,
I trouble you with my urgent knocking—
this is why: I hear you breathe so seldom.
I know you’re all alone in that room.
If you should be thirsty, there’s no one to get you a glass of water.
I wait listening, always.
Just give me a sign! I’m right here.
As it happens, the wall between us is very thin.
Why couldn’t a cry from one of us break it down?
It would crumble easily, it would barely make a sound.

 

 

Photo Credit: pexels.com